


Wolves of Scotland

by Crashing_Planes



Category: Reign (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Drabble, F/M, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Weirdness, kind of, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:50:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crashing_Planes/pseuds/Crashing_Planes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the numerous attacks on queen Mary, her mother, the lady Mary of Guise, decides the best way to protect her daughter and ensure her marriage is to send her own scottish guards to the court of France. Only there's more to the story than anyone's willing to tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter one: Without notice

**Author's Note:**

> This is so not betaed. Be prepared (for spelling mistakes).
> 
> Also, this takes place after episode seven and before episode eight.

”Francis.”

The crown prince turned away from the guard he was discussing with to see who was calling for him. To his surprise, he was met with the sight of Sebastian, his half-brother, looking winded and serious.

He offered a slightly strained smile.

“Brother?” Francis spread his arms in question. “Is there something wrong?” There wasn’t much he could do to keep the malice out of his voice and the constant burn of betrayal in his gut flared once more at the sight of Sebastian.

It would seem like Francis’ anger hadn’t gone unnoticed as he saw Sebastian stumble with his words in hesitation before he steeled himself.

It was hard; being this mad at him, but Francis quickly tried to swallow the guilt rising in his throat and turned his gaze away from him.

Sebastian cleared his throat.

“A rider arrived just a moment ago; there’s been sighting of a company on the king’s road heading this way from the north.” His voice was strained and harsh, but stressed with the seriousness he saw in the situation.

A frown sat itself deep on Francis’ face. He had no memory of any guests-

“There shouldn’t be anyo-“

“I know,” Sebastian snapped back at him, miraculously retaining the respect in his voice, which was expected of him. “That is why I am here now, telling you this and not flogging the messenger down at the stables.”

It was almost amusing to be at the receiving end of his half-bother’s agitation, but Francis couldn’t summon the effort to do more than snort at the jab. Sebastian appeared even less amused.

“They are coming this way quickly,” Sebastian said, finally. “We’ve got less than two hours before they arrive, maybe even less than one. The rider’s horse was near collapsing from exhaustion the moment she arrived at the stables.”

Sebastian took a few long strides towards him and said to him quietly: “Do you want me to send out a party to confront them?”

“No,” Francis said almost immediately. “No, we don’t know what they want yet, or even who they are.” He met Sebastian’s eyes again. “They could be diplomats with news, even though I can’t imagine how urgent they must be for them to without our notification of it. I seriously doubt that it’s the heretics barging forward so openly to attack us.

“Assemble the guards,” Francis said to the man behind him. “Have them meet us by the gates on the northern side. Bash, we must let father know of this, at once.”

In a moment of unintentional synchronization they turned and walked with quick determined steps to their father’s council chambers, where they both knew he’d most likely be at this hour of the day, and silence set between them; the tension was for once broken, as it was overpowered by this new business.

Their father looked less than pleased with them as they stormed into the halls. He looked up and scowled with annoyance at his children, as though they were just that; children. But they weren’t there to bother him with their pursuit of his attention this time; they were men now, and it was urgent matters they brought with them.

“What is it?” the king asked them sternly, like he was prepared to scold his sons. He took his hands from the maps at the table and approached them with the air of authority blazing about him.

“There is a party of riders on the king’s road,” Francis told him. It wasn’t as difficult as he would like to ignore the burning will to spite his father. “I’ve assembled guards to meet us by the northern gate, but we haven’t got much time now. We must leave for the stables immediately.”

Both he and Sebastian turned and walked out, and like many times before, Francis really wished he didn’t have to be mad at his brother.

The king hurried after them.

“What do we know of them?” the king demanded, sounding almost humbled by the fact that his sons had actually come with important matters. “I assume a rider spotted them and reported it. Did he say how many they were? If they were French? Or English?”

Oh, Francis certainly hoped it weren’t the English; he’d had enough of them lately.

“He couldn’t tell, said they looked more like peasants than soldiers though. Brutish looking and fast, though.”

As they rounded the corner the three of them were met with the sight of Mary and her friends walking down the halls. The girls laughed merrily at something that Mary had said, but quieted when they spotted the king and his sons.

They couldn’t afford to halt and converse with them, though, so they kept their hurried pace past them.

Francis settled with a nod and a strained smile at as she made eye-contact with him, even if he’d wanted to say more. Behind him he could hear them whispering questions at Mary and Francis couldn’t resist the urge to glance back at her before the made another turn and she left his sight.

The ride to the northern gate went swiftly and the outline of the party could be seen in the distance when they arrived there.

Though, you could hardly call it a party; Francis doubted there were more than fifteen horses riding their way, and they had no carriages with them.

But the boy had been right about one thing for they did indeed look as dirty as peasants and seemed to each have the strength of two men.

At least those of them that were men.

Francis could spot three women amongst them. Not by their adorned dresses of delicate manner, but by the crown of flapping hair that rose behind them in the speed of their horses’ gallop. They looked the fiercest of them all.

The sound of the guards starting to pull out their swords managed to distract them from the sight.

“No, wait!” the king ordered them. “We don’t know who they are yet. We mustn’t act foolishly.” He fell quiet and studied the riders intently as the thunder of hooves grew louder.

A cloud of dust rose from the ground as they were but a few strides away, and yet to have slowed their pace. It was tempting to retreat from the horses’ intimidating herd, but Francis stood his ground, as did his father, his brother and all of the guards.

Finally, the horses skidded to a halt and from the dust strode a great brown stallion. On its’ back was a large, savage looking man dressed in dirtied rags. He had dark hair, sharp eyes and his face was covered in stubble, but the most noticeable part of his appearance was the eerie sense of familiarity that rose within them as they saw him.

The stallion stopped before them and turned at the man’s command. He looked down at them with a deep scowl set on his forehead, but said nothing. Without removing his eyes from them, the man reached inside his battered vest and pulled out a stained letter and offered it out to the king.

Francis watched as his father accepted the letter with the stunning sort of regal hesitance, befitting for a king. It had a large red wax-seal, but the pattern of the stamp was unclear and otherwise completely unfamiliar to him.

But not to his father apparently, because as soon as the king saw it he broke it and hurriedly opened the letter. His eyes widened for a moment before a frown set on his face and he glanced up at the man on the stallion.

Francis let his gaze drift from his father to the man and then back at his father.

“What is it? Who is it from?”

Both the king and the man turned their scowling expressions to Francis.

His father sighed.

“It’s from Mary of Guise” His father said and held the letter up. “Your fiancé’s mother.” He pinned it to his son’s chest with his hand for him to read it for himself.

“Sir Derek,” The king named the man on the stallion, sounding everything but welcoming. “I bid you a warm welcome to my lands. I hope your journey was safe and without trouble.”

Sir Derek nodded sharply.

“Well, we have place for your horses at our stables. Come, you must be tired, and hungry, I suspect. We can feed your men before we must deal with business.” He paused. “And your… women as well, of course.”

Even though Francis knew what his father must have been thinking of the women in Sir Derek’s company, he doubted any of them were like the refined ladies he was used to; they looked no less ferocious than the men.

Sir Derek nodded again and called out a short command to his riders in what Francis supposed was English, but it was spoken far too quickly and his thick accent made it impossible for Francis to understand.

“Father, what is the meaning of this? Why are they here?” Francis hissed quietly to his father as they walked back to their horses.

The king turned sharply and stepped close to him, his eyes darkened with anger and annoyance. He spared a moment to study Sir Derek over Francis’ shoulder.

“It would seem like Mary’s mother is displeased,” he spat the word out mockingly. “With her daughter’s protection and here you see her solution for the problem.”

He gestured at the riders.

“She sent her own men to guard Mary,” Francis summarized in and turned to share a glance with Sebastian. “Is our security so inadequate she saw it necessary to send us more guards?”

It was insulting, really.

“They’re not guards.”

Francis sputtered in surprise.

“What are they then, soldiers?”

“Hunters, and rangers, some of them might even be farmers, as it’s always been in Scotland. The royals aren’t guarded by trained guards, but by gifted commoners. Ridiculous really, but it’s an ancient tradition.

“Gifted?” Sebastian inquired from the saddle of his horse. “Are they just _gifted_ and not trained?”

“We’ll speak of this later,” The king said as he heaved his way up in the saddle.

Only Francis wanted to shower his father with questions, even though he knew that it wasn’t wise to discuss the Scottish riders while they were still in their presence. He managed to restrain himself, but he turned and frowned at Sir Derek.

Suddenly, a grey horse blocked his gaze, and Francis looked up quickly. On its’ back was a woman. Her red hair reached down to and grazed the saddle as it swayed in the horse’s movement. She turned her hard eyes to him and for a moment, Francis felt like shrinking back from her.

These women were not to be underestimated, he decided; it might be something you wouldn’t live enough to regret.

The red-haired woman tilted her head back to stick her nose higher into the air as if she was smelling the air around hair and quickly shifted her attention away from him.

“Francis?” Sebastian was already back in the saddle, and so were all the guards. Francis was the only one who remained standing on the ground. Quickly, he sat his foot in the stirrups and pulled himself up.

The ride back to the stables took longer as Sir Derek set his company to a mild trot, instead of a high-speed gallop.

As they rode, Francis tried to position himself next to some of the Scottish riders, but as soon as he neared anyone, the horses drifted further away, either slowing down or speeding up or closer to the side of the path. It all seemed rather odd.

The stable boys gaped at them when they returned to the grounds, but the hurried back to work after the king scowled at them.

In total, Sir Derek had brought eight men; one tall, large and black as the night, another regal looking and pale, two of them looked exactly the like, one had curly hair and the next had his hair trimmed short to scalp, the other two had skin like burned caramel.

The three women in the company were all both beautiful and terrifying, though one of them stood a good two heads shorter than Francis, the red-haired one he’d seen earlier. The two others had blond and black hair and both of them matched his height.

“I’ll tell the cooks to prepare food for you immediately,” his father said. “If you don’t mind eating in the kitchens, that is.”

He smiled, as if he doubted it.

“No,” Sir Derek spoke to them for the first time in French. It sounded unpracticed and it broke in the clear English accent. “I want you to take me to Mary.”

Francis startled at the lack of Mary’s title when Sir Derek spoke of her. Did he know Mary personally? Had they been friends before she came to French court?

His father seemed just as surprised, if not more.

“Surely whatever you have to say to her can wait until you and your men have had a decent meal.”

“No, I must see her now.”

One of his men stepped forward, the one whose hair was cropped so short, and hissed something at him quietly, too quietly for Francis to hear, but Sir Derek didn’t answer. He only scowled deeper.

It was impossible to imagine what Sir Derek’s face would look like if he smiled. In fact, all he’d done since Francis met him had been scowling and frowning. He doubted very much that it would suit him.

“I would like to see my queen to pay my respects before I eat… Your majesty.” It sounded stiff and rehearsed when he said it and he turned to look pointedly at the man who’d spoken to him before.

The pleased grin that appeared on his face almost made Francis laugh and Sebastian chuckled softly behind him.

The king didn’t seem nearly as amused.

“Very well,” He said, turned and started walking out of the stables. “Follow me, Sir Derek.”

“Thank you, your majesty.”

Apparently Sir Derek wasn’t that good at sounding humble either. He didn’t spare a passing glance in Francis’ direction as he passed him to follow the king, but Francis studied him intently.

He looked nothing like the knights Francis was used to seeing in court or on the training grounds; there was no shining armor or high-quality boiled leather. There probably wasn’t a single banner or shield amongst the entire company.

No, Sir Derek looked like he’d been called away from ploughing the fields, to then have been sent on a dead sprint from Scotland to France. Francis supposed the latter one had had to be true.

Sebastian grabbed his arm before he could go after them.

“What did the letter say?” He asked him. “Father gave you the letter. What did it say?”

He sounded desperate to know and Francis wondered if it was his brother’s love for his fiancé that made it so, or if he was as worried as his father seemed, that Sir Derek’s arrival was cause for suspicion.

“The lady Mary of Guise thinks her daughter, _my_ fiancé,” Francis stressed the word, even though it was unnecessary; Mary only thought of Sebastian as her friend, even if that wasn’t enough for him. “Isn’t as secure here as she could be. She decided to lend us a couple of extra hands.”

Francis pulled his arm out of his brother’s, now slack, grip and walked after his father.

The king led Sir Derek to the throne room and sent a guard to request Mary’s presence.

The regal air of the filthy looking knight became stunningly obvious as they waited. It was fascinating how he could hold such a straight posture and controlled expression as the waiting stretched to long minutes. The only thing that betrayed his illusion of patience was his hand that had drifted to rest on the hilt of his sword, thumbing the leather hesitantly.

When Mary rounded the corner, Francis couldn’t help but for once cursing her beauty in frustration; he didn’t fancy more men, rivaling him for her attention.

Her dress was of a deep burgundy silk, trimmed with black beadings. The polite smile that had adorned her painted lips stretched to a full-teethed one as she caught sight of Sir Derek and she let out a squeal in surprise.

Francis had never heard her do that before.

Mary broke into a run and threw her arms around Sir Derek’s neck and laughed in delight.

Well, Francis had certainly never seen her done _that_ before.

“Cora,” Sir Derek said to her warmly and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“What is the meaning of this?” he exclaimed. “Mary, how do you know this man?”

It was jealousy that stained his voice, and Francis knew it. Right now he didn’t care.

“Oh, no,” Mary said as she pulled away from his embrace. “Francis, it isn’t what you think.”

“Oh, now? What is it then?”

“Derek is my brother!”

Oh.

“He’s my father’s only bastard child. I haven’t seen him for years.”

OH.

“Derek what are you doing here?” she asked Sir Derek and Francis was starting to feel a wave of embarrassment washing up his neck.

“The lady Mary sent me and the royal guard. There wasn’t time to send a messenger to notify you; we left as soon as it she decided to send us here.”

“The others are here as well?” Mary asked. She sounded so happy.

Sir Derek smiled.

Francis could see it now. They had the same smile, the two of them.

“I’ve missed you, Cora.”

“I wish you’d stop calling me that.”


	2. The bastards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I never update a story this quickly, but since y'all seemed to like it so much I decided to give you a christamas present.
> 
> As always, be prepared (for spelling mistakes and historical inaccuracy).

The castle that his half-sister Mary now called her home, was very different from the one Derek was used to in Scotland.

Everything was off here; the smells, the people were all so strange to him and the forests that surrounded the castle was thicker and darker than he was used to. This was the first time Derek had been outside Scotland, and he still hadn’t warmed to the idea that the dirt underneath his boots wasn’t Scottish soil.

Not that there was much dirt inside the castle.

Something that was familiar was the sight of his sister. Derek hadn’t seen Mary since she was a little child, but the scent of her sent memories flooding back to his mind and as she embraced him in the throne room, he turned his head to breathe deeply into her neck.

She had matured from the child he once knew to a woman who could rule a country with dignity. Derek could see it in her face, in her eyes that gleamed with kindness and intelligence.

The ladies that accompanied her stilled when they saw him, probably too surprised by his presence to great him the way titled ladies ought to do.

They’d never really liked him, or any of the people under his command in the royal Scottish guard. Not many people did and not that they were actually supposed to.

No, fear and respect, that’s how they should be treated. After his father’s, King James the fifth had died fifteen years earlier his mother encouraged him to start training in the ways of the sword. Even if he’d only been seven years old at the time, Derek dived into the task whole heartedly.

There wasn’t a single person who was surprised by his enthusiasm for combat; his mother Talia had been renowned for her years of service as the captain of the royal guards before she’d become pregnant and King James had convinced her to step down from her position.

There were times when Derek looked at his mother and saw the fierce warrior she’d once been, the moments when she unknowingly let her façade fall. To everyone else she was always Talia – the king’s mistress, but to Derek she was a predator: fearless and deadly.

That’s what Derek wanted to be, just like his mother. People were always telling him how he looked just like his father, but they all knew that in every other way he was his mother’s son.

The ladies looked fearful enough for him as they shifted nervously and whispered quietly to each other and sent discrete glances his way.

Derek walked towards them, but slowly and he made an effort not to look threatening. They shuffled back anyways when he came two arm-lengths away. He stopped and stifled a sigh.

“My ladies,” he said in their native tongue and bowed stiffly. As he straightened he remembered that the girl, Greer, wasn’t part of a titled family, so he looked at her and bowed again. “Miss Greer.”

The blonde girl in the front of the cluster of girls straightened her neck gracefully and clutched her purple dress to curtsy in the proper manner. “Sir Derek.”

Another voice spoke up behind her.

“Did Stiles come with you?” It was Aylee, the smallest girl of the group.

That was new. Derek had met Aylee several times before in Scotland, but he’d never known she knew Stiles.  Hell, he’d never known Stiles had ever met her.

Stiles’ position in the guard consisted mostly of patrols round the grounds of the castles, he never talked to members of the royal family or of any noble family, as a matter of fact. Derek knew that Stiles had many friends, most of which Derek had never met himself, but a titled lady?

Aylee’s friends seemed just as surprised as Derek.

“Who’s Stiles?” he heard Miss Greer whisper to her. She needed to practice whispering more quietly if she didn’t want Derek to know what she was saying; she might as well be whispering into his ear directly, he’d still hear her just as clearly.

“I knew him when I was little,” she didn’t bother whispering and Derek realized she must be more informed concerning the rumors that had circled the royal guards for decades. And she believed them. “He’s the son of a Hunter who lived at the edge of our lands. I used to play with him all the time before I left for court.”

Four years ago Derek had seen Stiles for the first time. He’d been skinny and lanky and he was constantly twitching and talking nervously when he was supposed to be training. That wasn’t Stiles anymore. He’d gotten used to it, to everything, and he’d adapted.

“Yes,” he wasn’t going to let them know what he was thinking. “He did. He’s with the others in the stables.”

Aylee smiled widely. She was a very pretty girl. Derek hoped she knew what the guard had done to Stiles and how he’d changed after joining, that she knew that it wasn’t a good idea to meet him. The image of the long gone Stiles she had known could live a little longer.

“I look forward to seeing him again. It’s been years!”

Derek couldn’t help but feel sad for her; Stiles had changed a lot in the last few years. The intelligence that he now showed was bordering on frightening and so was his combat skills, and all the rambling and awkwardness was a thing of the past. He’d grown up.

“He’s an excellent scout.”

It was all he could think of saying, and he realized it was quite a strange thing to say to Stiles’ childhood friend. She must have thought Stiles was still a goofy little kid, not an experienced killer.

“Oh,” she sounded surprised, either it was because Stiles had managed to get over the habit of tripping over his own feet or because Derek was scowling while he complemented him.

There was more than one reason why Derek felt jealous when he looked upon the noble girl, the first being the radiance of innocence she had and the second was the knowledge that she’d known Stiles before him. Before he’d been gifted and had joined the guard.

She wouldn’t be happy to see what Stiles had turned out to be, even though Derek considered him to be one of the finest under his command.

They weren’t like ordinary people, you see. They were more; better, stronger, faster and so much more in touch with their primitive sides, as Derek liked to put it.

Derek couldn’t bear to look at her any longer; she was reminding him of Stiles, who was still down at the stables, and Derek felt his heart tugging in his chest. He turned to his sister and the king.

“I should be getting back to the stables.”

_To Stiles,_ he thought.

“Yes, of course,” said the king. “I understand. Bash, lead Sir Derek back to the stables, then take him and his men to the kitchens so that they can get some food in them.”

He didn’t really need to be led anywhere, but Derek kept his mouth shut as the young dark haired man that had been with the king and the crown prince when they greeted him stepped forward.

He – Derek had already forgotten his name – was a bastard as well if Derek remembered correctly, and he was almost certain that he did, though he looked more favored by his father than Derek had ever been of his.

They studied each other intently before Derek said good bye to his sister and turned to leave the room. He soon heard the other bastard hurried steps behind him.

“Is it true then?” The bastard asked after a few moments of silence. “What they say about you and your men?”

Now, that was just annoying. Derek stopped abruptly and turned his hard eyes to him. The other bastard skidded to a halt to prevent himself from hurtling into him and almost stammered out an apology, judging by the look on his face.

“And what is it,” Derek spelled out for him very slowly. “That they say about me and my men?”

“Uhm,” was what he managed to sputter out in response. “That they aren’t real guards.”

Derek raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I meant that they aren’t trained. You know, real proper training. But I suppose it can’t be true, since you’re knighted. You don’t get knighted if you’re not trained.”

It really was amusing to watch him squirm like this, but Derek didn’t feel like laughing at him. Bastard should stick together after all.

“A part of it’s true,” Derek started walking again. “I’ve been trained officially since I was seven.  Most of my men joined when they were fourteen or older.”

“What do you mean officially?”

“My mother was captain of the guard before my father got her pregnant. She trained me herself since the day I was old enough to hold a sword.”

“And your father was the king of Scotland? Mary’s father?”

“Yes.”

Derek used to marvel at his ability to cut a conversation short with only a small hint of annoyance in his voice. Stiles later told him that it was because he sounded like he was likely to kill them if they kept talking and no one dared put that feeling to the test. It wasn’t as amusing after that.

But it would seem like this bastard wasn’t going to relent so easily.

“He was killed wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Even though the guard was protecting him?”

“Yes.”

“Then why is it that Mary’s mother thinks she’ll be safer if you’re here to guard her if you couldn’t save him?”

“That was fifteen years ago. Things have changed, both the circumstances and within the guard itself.” Derek could hear the anger in his voice, but he’d grown tired of the questioning of the guards competence after his father’s death. And he’d grown even more tired of the questions directed at him.

In fact, that was a ridiculous question to ask him; his father’s death had occurred long before Derek had become the captain, long before he’d even become a knight. These questions would be more useful if directed towards the captain that had failed the king, even if it would be at his grave and not his face.

 “Still, the guards here at the castle are more than qualified to defend her on their own.”

This time, Derek swirled around without warning in his fury.

“They are?” He bellowed at him. “We received not more than a few days ago that my sister, and you for that matter of fact, were taken hostage by a band of Italians. In your own castle!” Derek flung his arms out at the stone walls that surrounded them. “You think they’re qualified to protect my sister, my _queen_?”

The bastard clenched his jaw, but said nothing and Derek lowered his voice to a whisper.

“We have every right to fear for her life after the rumors we’ve heard, after all the tales of the attempts on her life, and her virtue,” Derek didn’t know which one that had angered him more when he learned of it. “Where were your guards then?”

He didn’t spare him enough time to allow him to answer.

“The man who let my father get killed was a madman; he had no business being the captain of the guards. My mother tried to warn the king of him, but he wouldn’t listen to her. He never did.”

“Did she know him?”

It was difficult to say who of them found the question most surprising.

Derek nodded and felt the old shame rise in his chest.

“She did. He was her brother, my uncle.”

There was no point in waiting for the reaction to his family’s greatest shame. He’d seen it enough times already.

“Do not question our presence here again, for I won’t be as polite the next time.” And with that he left the bastard there and headed to the stables by himself. He could still remember the way.

When he got to the stables none of his men were there, just a stable boy.

“Oh, uhm,” the stable boy said. “They left. Your men. For-for the kitchens.”

Derek glowered at him.

“To-to-to eat,” he stammered.

“Here I was, thinking they’d be there to sharpen their swords,” Derek said dryly in broken French in return. “Which way is it?”

The boy led him to the kitchens with quick steps that made Derek walk with brisk paces to be able to keep up, and with his head bowed in silence. As they neared, Derek heard a voice call out from within.

“The food is getting cold. Why won’t they just eat!? They haven’t even touched it yet.” The man sighed. “Maybe they’d prefer catching a deer by themselves and eating it raw.”  The man and a few other people laughed. Derek would have been mad if it hadn’t been true. Instead he chuckled. They’d prefer meat over trying the French cuisine.

None of Derek’s men spoke French and they hadn’t had time for lessons on the journey. He doubted more than five of them even knew how to say “hello” or “good day”. He knew that they couldn’t tell the cooks why they wouldn’t eat yet. He couldn’t help the smile that touched his lips.

“Shit, finally!” Derek heard as soon as he entered the room. “Had to see your sister first. Really, Derek? We haven’t eaten since the boat!”

Of course it was Erica who was yelling at him, she was always yelling at someone and most of the time it was Derek. The French chefs in the room stared at the girl, screaming at her commander, in disbelief and then at Derek when he started laughing.

“Derek, how was your sister?” Stiles asked him, for once not in a hurry to eat. The others made agreeing sounds, all wondering how their queen was faring.

“She looked good,” he said as he took the empty seat next to Stiles. “Beautiful and strong. You’d hardly think we are needed her to protect her. Her ladies looked fine as well.” He wasn’t going to mention lady Aylee he decided, not yet at least.

“Oh, how nice,” Erica said in a false excitement lacing her voice. “Now eat, you bastard!”

Everyone fell quiet and Derek scowled. He couldn’t hold it for long though and soon he burst out laughing and everyone joined in. The Frenchmen startled in confusion and when one of the kitchen boys dropped a plate full of tartlets, another wave of laughter came over them.

Derek wiped a stray tear that had run from his eye in his fit of laughter and picked up a loaf of bread from the table. As soon as he’d swallowed the first bite, his men scrambled out from their seats and threw themselves across the table to get to the food.

“What…” Derek heard someone whisper behind him. He turned as he stuffed his mouth full of bread again. It was the bastard - Derek really couldn’t remember his name. He must have followed him down to the stables and from them to the kitchens. There wasn’t much point in chasing him away, but he didn’t see the meaning in calling him over either, so Derek held his gaze for a few seconds and chewed his bread before he turned back to the food.

He could feel Stiles turn around too, but when he elbowed him gently in question Derek kept quiet and kept eating. Stiles sighed, but left it alone.

“Do you know where we’ll be sleeping?” Allison asked around a mouthful of apple. “Or if we can sleep in the woods here?”

“No, they never told me and I forgot to ask,” he admitted and then frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think we should go out in the woods though. There’s something about it that seems way off. It’s like the whole place smells like blood.”

They all nodded solemnly in agreement. They all must have smelled it as well when they rode past it, even if they weren’t paying attention to the scents around them. It was an overwhelming stench to them.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind a real bed for once,” said Jackson as he gracefully took a swig of the wine they’d received.

“You do realize that they’d smell,” Lydia said and leaned towards him. “Like piss and dirty Frenchmen!”

All but Jackson burst out laughing. Maybe it was at the disgusted look on Jackson’s face or the thought of how it would look if he had to sleep in a smelly bed.

“I’d rather sleep in the stables,” Boyd said. He was the strangest looking of his men, but only because of his dark skin. And maybe the fact that he was a mountain of solid muscles. He was always the one who got stared at the most when they had to show themselves in public.

“As if the horses could smell any worse than the French.”

“Be careful of what you say,” Derek chastised them sternly and look over at a kitchen boy standing directly behind Scott. “They may not understand what we say, but there are people here who know our language, and many of them aren’t exactly happy that we’re here.”

The boy jumped and dropped the basket of apples he was carrying when he saw that Derek was staring at him.

“Don’t give them any reason to dislike you, or to not trust you.”

He let his eyes wonder across the table to study each of his men. They weren’t stupid, none of his men were stupid. Even Scott wasn’t stupid, everyone just thought he was. His men knew that they had to be careful here or else they could disappear one by one in accidents or such. And Derek would be the only one to question it. This was dangerous.

“And keep your hands off the kitchen boys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bug me on tumblr: http://themonsterbelow.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> You can always bug me on my tumblr: http://themonsterbelow.tumblr.com/


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